


Psmith Pstares

by nimiumcaelo



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M, Mike is Very Dishy™, Pining, Pre-Slash, Psmith Has a Crush, Sedleigh to the bank to their flat in the city, ok this is a little bit silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 03:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15040136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimiumcaelo/pseuds/nimiumcaelo
Summary: It wasn’t entirely his fault, however. If Mike insisted on having such a godlike countenance, supplemented by a similarly divine rear end, how could Psmith resist the temptation to gaze longingly?





	Psmith Pstares

( _sedleigh_ )

 

Psmith was not one to often fall prey to the habit of watching people out of the side of his eye. Generally, when he wished to stare at someone, he wasn’t overly fearful of said person knowing he was performing the act. He found no shame in it, typically. Thus, it came as somewhat of a surprise when he found himself pointedly _not_ looking at one dishy old Wrykynian whenever that d. o. W.’s gaze was pointed in Psmith’s direction. When the d. o. W.’s back was turned, however, that was an entirely different story.

Mike was, at that moment, wriggling the bar out of the window, oblivious to this subtle ogling of his form. Psmith was frighteningly glad of the fact, as his eyes were wandering rather dangerously. It wasn’t entirely his fault, however. If Mike insisted on having such a godlike countenance, supplemented by a similarly divine rear end, how could Psmith resist the temptation to gaze longingly?

Mike pulled himself upright and set the bar aside.

“Next, you might wish to abstract that key from yonder door,” suggested Psmith, brushing a speck of dust off his left sleeve.

“Alright. Just a mo’.”

Mike’s squarish fingers caught on the door-frame as he rounded the corner. Psmith stared after him.

 

~

 

( _the new asiatic bank_ )

 

It was a great relief for Psmith to see Mike again after so long. Bright warm feelings of camaraderie blossomed to the forefront of his mind and a rush of affection flooded him. Images of their future gallivants flitted past. The world seemed bright and sunny. Birds were heard to be chirping in the vicinity. Granted, the sight before himself was only of the back of Mike’s head as he bent over his ledger. However, let it not be said that Psmith did not appreciate _all_ parts of Mike,  mundane though they might seem to the casual observer.

Electric lights were not quite as flattering to the golden highlights of Mike’s hair as the natural sunshine.  Nor was that stooped posture quite as helpful  in showcasing his exquisite shoulders. Psmith noted this. The fact,  however, did not stop him in his appreciation.  It was difficult to divorce this sight from the memories of other, more romantic  ones : Mike frowning in concentration at some schoolwork; Mike brushing the sweat from his brow on a sunny afternoon on the pitch; Mike scratching at his  immaculate  nose. Psmith felt his knees grow jelly-like.

A young man carrying a cup of tea nearly bumped into  the  appreciative old Etonian . Psmith’s  gazing came to a sudden end, and he remembered himself.  He came, as they say, to his senses. His fingers tapped lightly against Mike’s lovely shoulde r. He felt a thrill run through himself as Mike’s eyes met his.

 

~

 

( _psmith and mike’s flat in london_ )

 

Mike was not one that the  casual observer would peg as  naturally recumbent . His was more of the active personality. To the cricket pitch and the busy, physical world were his features suited; not to the contemplative realm of the  intellectual . Psmith found, however, that  this did not impede his sleeping form from being just as pleasing to the eye as that of his alert.

Said sleeper was currently slouched low in his armchair, drawn near the fire. His elbow was resting lightly against Psmith’s, and the old Etonian found his attention drawn to this minute point of contact. Mike did not snore, nor did he snuffle. His were the slow, easy, unlabored breaths of him who has not yet taken up the cigarette. His eyes were closed in angelic repose—Psmith found the analogy apt, despite the rhyme—and his chin was buried deep into his buttons.

Psmith  gazed. He longed sharply. The pain of it was nearly complete. He blinked. He took a breath. Averting his gaze, the old Etonian ceased his  thoughts and allowed his eyes to close as well. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he fancied he felt Mike’s forearm fall to rest more fully against his own.

**Author's Note:**

> ha i just can't stay away, can i?
> 
> as always, hmu with prompts/requests/questions [here](https://ask.fm/nimiumcaelo)


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